Saturday, June 9, 2018

Exerpt from Address
book for the Royal Prussian Principality of Ansbach and Bayreuth

Suppose for a moment you are wandering through Bavaria in
the early 1600s, poor, tired and hungry. Then by happenstance, you stumble across a
book lying in the trail as if placed there by providence, or the good Lord in
Heaven. Just as you reach for this leather-bound
treasure, the wind whips the pages and presents you with page 348.

Of course, 348 has always been your lucky number anyway, so
imagine your excitement as you realize the town just a few kilometers up the
trail is Wettelsheim, listed right there on 348.

Being a smarter than average Bavarian, you know how to read, so you know that the header on page 348 - Geiftlichfeit auf dem Lande - reads Kindness in the Countryside. Now, if
you can just find the home or place of business of this Pfr. Hr. Georg Ulbecht Kepner, you know you shall have bread, wine
and shelter this evening.

My father was a man who loved God and eschewed evil, as was
his father and his father… and most assuredly his father also! I have always known I came from a long line
of Godly men, pillars of the community and servants of the church. But little did I know how deep that heritage
runs. My 10th great
grandfather was known throughout Bavaria as the man to seek out for a
kindness. Of course, you probably wouldn’t
find him at his house. He was more
likely out doing his Father’s business.

Tuesday, September 19, 2017

It has been said there are two kinds of people; those who
divide people into two kinds of people and those who don’t. The guy that
said that was obviously the first kind. I’m probably more the second, as
you will soon see.

It was actually two cardiologists who developed the theory
that there are two types of personalities; Types A and B. They
observed that folks who are more competitive, outgoing, ambitious, impatient or
aggressive are Type A. Of course, the more mellow of the species are Type
B. They surmised that Type A’s have a greater chance of developing
coronary heart disease, while B’s are generally more satisfied with life.

Personally, I find the theory particularly humorous that the
inhabitants of this entire planet could be summed up by only two types.
At the time I write this, the current world population is a bit over seven
billion five hundred thirty-three million, and counting. I would submit
to you that indeed there are a bit over seven billion five hundred thirty-three
million types of people!

I suppose, technically speaking, we can create categories;
be it home town, hair color or handedness. But, my point is this –
Don’t lose who you are, trying to be what “they” think you should be! You
are one of a kind – uniquely designed and with a path all your own. So,
discover the exceptional gifts you have been graced with, and strive to develop
those. Grow into who you are meant to be, and see if you aren’t a bit
more satisfied with life. And I’m betting you’ll live longer too!

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

Got any interesting nicknames? I’ve been called Red. I’ve been called
Lefty. A whole group of folks used to refer
to me as Cam. Back when I was 16 I was
even called Truck for one evening. But
that’s a different story for a different day.

I’ve always wanted to share with you my most endearing nickname. But until recently I could not, because I
couldn’t figure out how to spell it.
Let me explain.

When I was three years old my family moved to Perryton,
Texas for dad’s work. Dad worked with a
group of Hispanic men, and they all fondly called him by a nickname. Dad liked the name, and passed it down to
me. I’ve always wanted to use it as a
screen name, or have it stamped on the back of a belt, or something to honor
dad. But I just didn’t know how it was
spelled. The name was pronounced KAW –
ROWL.

I loved to hear dad walk in the house after work and yell, “Where’s
KAW-ROWL?” But what did that mean? And how was it spelled? Dad said they told him it meant Red in
Spanish. But I took Spanish in 5th
grade, and I knew the Spanish word for Red is Rojo. So, the mystery lingered.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I was visiting with a relative
of a relative who is Hispanic. I asked
him if he knew what KAW-ROWL meant. He
gave me a puzzled look, so I told him the back story. “OH”, he exclaimed. “You mean Colorado!”

Colorado? Isn’t that
a state? Well, yes. But it is also another word for red, in
Spanish. Of course, you have to put a
heavy roll on the R (and apparently, the D is silent?) After half a century, Mystery Solved!

So, if you like, you have my permission to call me
Colorado. But if you do, please
pronounce it KAW-ROWL, with a heavy roll on the R. And up in Heaven, Dad will be grinning!

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Wasn’t it Al Capone who said, “Vote early, and often”? That’s the Chicago way! And we’ve all heard reports of people voting
from their graves in Colorado and California.

Then there’s the famous quote ascribed to Communist leader Joseph Stalin
that goes something like this; “Those who cast the votes decide nothing. Those who count the votes decide
everything.” It’s enough to make a soul
cynical on the whole idea of democracy.
To echo that age-old sentiment, “Does my vote really count?”

The answer to that question may very well rest with how the
votes are counted. In days of old people
marked their choice on a piece of paper and stuffed it in a ballet box (perhaps
early and often). And we stayed up into
the wee hours of the morning to learn the results.

However, in the Information Age that is the 21st
century we have optical scan devices and direct recording electronic (DRE)
systems with touch screens. These
methods were designed to count the ever growing number of voters in a quick and
organized fashion. Thank goodness for
technology!

But then Princeton professor Andrew Appel showed us how he
can hack an electronic voting machine in 7 minutes, skewing the results at his
whim. His message was simple – the
machines we use to vote are less secure than the smartphones we carry in our
pockets. And our angst grew deeper. So now we swallow hard and head to the polls,
trusting the powers that be to count the votes as closely as possible, and
perhaps with the help of divine providence get the candidate we actually
chose. At least that’s what I’m doing.

So, remember to vote on Tuesday, November 8th. Hey, it’s a civic responsibility, but also a privilege to have your say! Just watch out for hanging chads!Graphic designed by Freepik

Friday, February 26, 2016

Its Oscar season, and everywhere you turn someone is listing their top 10 movies of all time. Of course, most of those lists contain the obvious; The Godfather, Braveheart, Forrest Gump, Rocky, Sound of Music – Oscar winners, one and all.

So I decided to list my top ten favorite movies that did NOT win Best Picture. And here they are, in chronological order:

TOP TEN LOSERS

Mr. Smith Goes to Washington (1939 – lost to Gone With the Wind)The Grapes of Wrath (1940 – lost to Rebecca)It’s a Wonderful Life (1946 – Lost to The Best Years of Our Lives)High Noon (1952 – Lost to The Greatest Show on Earth)The Ten Commandments (1956 – Lost to Around the World in 80 Days)12 Angry Men (1957 – Lost to The Bridge on the River Kwai)Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid (1969 – Lost to Midnight Cowboy)The Shawshank Redemption (1994 – Lost to Forrest Gump)Saving Private Ryan (1998 – Lost to Shakespeare in Love)The Green Mile (1999 – Lost to American Beauty)

As a closing thought, here are (in my opinion) the worst travesties in Academy history:WORST TRAVESTIES

That Wizard of Oz had to compete with Gone With the Wind;That Mr. Smith goes to Washington had to compete with Gone With the Wind;That Star Wars (or anything else) was beaten by Annie Hall;That a western hasn’t won Best Picture since Unforgiven, in 1992 (although Braveheart and Gladiator might be considered westerns);That politics is so prevalent in the movie industry;That they just don’t make ‘em like they used to!

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

At least that’s
what the muffled voice appeared to say.
But through three sets of walls it was hard to even hear – much less
understand – the announcement made over the loudspeaker. And although he had already pressed every
button on the control panel, that announcement caused Dave to again punch the
button labeled “Alarm”, hoping against hope that someone would answer his plea,
or at least recognize his presence in the building. “I can’t afford to panic,” Dave thought to
himself.

Dave never really
liked elevators anyway. Like many people
he had a slight touch of claustrophobia.
And although his wasn’t strong enough to keep him out of elevators
altogether, it was enough to give him a healthy respect for stairways. Dave would always claim he took the stairs
for health reasons. He just didn’t
clarify that it was for mental health
reasons!

NINE…

Dave knew this structure
was slated for demolition. He knew the
date. He knew the time. He even knew how many pounds of C-4 would be needed
and, ironically, which direction the elevator shaft would fall. Such knowledge was integral to the man whose
job it was to supervise the crew tasked with bringing down this once stately –
now foul and crumbling 9 story monstrosity.
But for all the things Dave did know, what he could not comprehend was
how he came be trapped inside this elevator… so close to zero hour.

Even when he was a
child Dave loved explosives. On the
fourth of July Dave didn’t play with mere firecrackers. He was an M-80 man! An M-80, officially described as a
pyrotechnic device, is essentially a firecracker on steroids, or at least it
was – before it was banned for sale to the general public in 1966. It contained 50 to 60 times more flash powder
than a regular firecracker; enough to take a finger… or a hand. But Dave lost nary a finger, and he knew what
he wanted to be when he grew up.

EIGHT…

The fog inside
Dave’s brain oddly resembled the cloud of dust he had seen so many times before;
moments after he set off the chain of events with the index finger of his right
hand. “Why did I come back into the building?” Dave
asked himself, struggling to concentrate.
“I had everything ready; every charge wired and set, every man in his
place. I remember having my finger on
the button. But this isn’t the right
button…”

SEVEN…

“This can’t be
happening,” Dave whispered. “Not on one
of my jobs.” Dave prided himself in
being known as Mister Blast, the best in the business at his chosen profession
of explosion demolition. But Dave didn’t
bestow that moniker upon himself. For
three years running that distinction was made by Demolition Monthly, the trade
periodical for those who get to play with explosives for a living. The most recent award was announced in an article
that focused on Dave’s safety record. That
month’s cover graphic was a bandage covered by a big red circle and slash, for
in 136 jobs engineered by Dave, there had never been the need for as much as a band-Aid.

SIX…

Dave fought to recall
why he was where he was. What could have
compelled him to walk back inside this doomed structure? Was something wrong with one of his charges? Or perhaps someone spotted something that
wasn’t right. Dave was familiar with the
urban legends about homeless people who refused to leave and went down with the
ship; so to speak. To this day folks in
Oklahoma City speak of October ’77 and that mysterious outline of a man seen
staring out a window of the old Biltmore Hotel – at the very moment of the blast. Of course, a body was never found. Those are just made-up stories. Or are they?

FIVE…

“And why are the
lights even on?” Dave wondered. Cutting
the electricity to a structure is one of the first things dealt with by his
crew. We can’t have live wires hanging
around, causing sparks and fires – and electrocuting innocent bystanders. Yet not only are the lights on, but
apparently the elevators are working. Or
at least they were a few moments ago.
“But this just can’t be so!” Dave thought to himself. “Yet here I am…”

FOUR…

Realizing his life
was now measured in milliseconds; Dave turned and began to claw at the
door. “Must run… No time left…” Dave
struggled to concentrate – to execute an escape from this prison of
circumstance. But the door would not
budge. And, even if he had possessed a
step-ladder, his fruitless efforts with the door had left him too exhausted to
search for a trap door in the ceiling.
“Trap doors should be located in the floor,” he foolishly thought to
himself.

But Dave was not
willing to give up. He was no
quitter. He simply had no idea what to
try next. And so, totally overwhelmed for the moment, he collapsed to the
floor. And sitting there realizing he
was living the last seconds of his life, Dave’s thoughts turned to a different
explosion that took place in Oklahoma City.

THREE…

Dave’s job was to
blow buildings. But the buildings he
brought down were timeworn; no longer functional, or at least no longer
profitable. And his blasts ultimately
resulted in useless eyesores being replaced with beautiful things. The building Tim McVeigh blew up in Oklahoma
City was all-together a different matter.
McVeigh’s bomb was built with the purpose of causing pain and suffering;
death and destruction. And the building
it brought down was not nearly ready to give up the ghost.

In the midst of
the suffering and loss of life, everyone in Oklahoma – yea, everyone in America
took personal offense. If life had left
us any semblance of security, the events of April 17, 1995 dealt a death blow
to that naivety. And we were angry! Yet Dave’s anger ran even deeper, if that is
possible. See, he considered it a
personal affront; as if the man was purposely mocking his chosen profession. “We are not killers!” Dave screamed back at
his thoughts.

TWO…

Dave’s recollection of the Oklahoma City
attack, if not as clear, was more personal than most. See, at 9:01 AM on that fateful morning Dave
was walking down the sidewalk just one block from the front door of the Murrah
Building when McVeigh pulled up and parked the Ryder Truck. And Dave’s life was changed forever.

ONE…

Dave’s injuries from
the explosion on that April morning were not life threatening, but they were
life changing. He would lose the use of
his left arm, and his right eye. And
that impish grin he used to try so hard to hide no longer needed to be
disguised, as the disfigurement of his face permanently stole away his
smile.

CONTACT!

And then Dave
heard that word he had dreaded for the last ten agonizing seconds. And while he grimaced in fear and anguish with
what would surely be his last breath, viewers all across America watched the
historic and fateful blast on their televisions.

“Dave, are you OK?”
he heard the voice asking. Dave
recognized the voice as that of Roger Taliaferro, his second in command and
right-hand man. At the sound of Roger’s
voice Dave realized two things; first, that he was not dead – or else that was
really the voice of an angel. But Dave
had been friends with him long enough to know Roger was definitely no angel!

The second thing
he realized was that he needed to respond, lest his inquisitor believe him dead
and walk away. “What happened?” Dave
asked.

“Geez Dave, we all
thought you weren’t gonna make it,” Roger responded. “You were injured in an explosion.”

“I know,
Roger. I heard the countdown over the
loudspeaker. I was trapped in an elevator,” Dave answered. “Who gave the command? Who pushed the button?”

“Countdown? What Countdown? What loudspeaker?” Roger asked with a look of
concern and confusion. “And what
elevator? You weren’t in an elevator. You were walking down the sidewalk.”

But Dave did hear
a countdown. “I know I heard a countdown,”
Dave demanded. “It was muffled but I
know it was a countdown to an explosion, because I heard the explosion.”

Right then Roger
noticed what was playing on the television.
The date was May 23rd, 1995, just over a month since 168
lives were taken and over 680, including Dave, had been injured by the Murrah
Building bombing. And today was the day
the remains of the building were to be leveled – by explosion; a job neither
Dave nor Roger would have relished.

The human mind is
a complex organism. It thinks and
schemes. It reckons and dreams. And sometimes those dreams interweave
themselves with reality. Slowly the
realization came upon Dave that he had not been trapped in the elevator of a
doomed building, but was resting in his hospital bed; the bed he had occupied
for over a month now.

Dave prayed a
prayer of thanks that day in May. He
thanked God it was just a dream. He
thanked God the bombing of 1995 would teach mankind that violence holds no
answer to the troubles that plague us. And
he thanked God he survived the bombing to end all bombings, for surely never again would anyone ever hate deeply enough to destroy a whole building!

Surely!

Photo of the Murrah Building, Oklahoma City, Oklahoma - in the public domain.

I saw three… and then there were two, in almost the twinkling of an eye. But what happened to the third little girl?The Third Little Girl

...the guy that gets to pray with someone and lead them to Christ gets to see the result of all that labor. With Jack, I wanted to be that guy! (EDITOR'S NOTE: This story was picked up for publication in the Pentecostal Evangel.)A Religious Guy